The Massarene pile had been touched by the magic wand which could transform it into fashion. To go to Harrenden House became the amusement of the great and the ambition of all lesser folks. Not to go to Harrenden House became soon a confession that you were nobody yourself. “_Tenez la dragée haute!_” said their guide, philosopher, and friend; and she made them very exclusive indeed, and would let no one snub them or laugh at them except herself. “On my soul, she do give worth for her money!” thought William Massarene; and he was pleased to feel that he had not been fooled even when he had bought a barren Scotch estate and compromised his credit in the City by putting a consumptive little sot on the Board of a bank. “Why don’t you bespeak the Massarene young woman for me, Mouse?” said Brancepeth in the boudoir of Stanhope Street, when he heard of the bust of Dalou and the portrait of Orchardson. “How exactly like a man!” said his friend, blue fire flashing from her eyes. “A little while ago you were mad about the Countess Lynar!” “It’s uncommon like a man to get a pot of money when he can!” said Brancepeth with amusement. “If you did your duty by me, you’d bespeak me those loaves and fishes; you do what you like with the bloomin’ cad.” “I would sooner see you dead than married!” “I be bound you would,” muttered the young man. “Lord, that’s the sort of thing women call love!” “Men’s love is so disinterested, we know!” said Mouse with withering contempt. “You want the young woman for Ronnie,” continued Brancepeth. “That’s your little game. But he won’t take your tip.” “Why not?” “’Cos he’s the cussedest crank in all Judee! Let Ronnie please himself and get me the Massarene dollars. I’ll give you half I get; and I sha’n’t know whether she’s a snub nose or a straight one.” Mouse colored with anger. There are things when however necessary it may be to do them, cannot be spoken of without offence. “How odiously coarse you grow,” she observed with severity. “Oh, bother! you call a spade a spade fast enough sometimes. How you do make me think of my old granny Luce!” “In what do I resemble your old granny Luce?” Brancepeth was mute. To repeat what his maternal grandmother had said would not pour oil on troubled waters. What the very free-spoken and sharp-tongued old Lady Luce had said was this, when Brancepeth was still in the sixth form at Eton: “You’re such a pretty boy, Harry, the women-folks will be after you like wasps after treacle; take my advice, whatever you do steer clear of the married ones. A married woman always has such a lot of trumps up her sleeve. She sticks like a burr: you can pay off a wench, but you can’t pay off her; and if her fancy-man tries to get away she calls in her husband and there’s the devil and all to pay. Don’t you forget that, Harry.” But he had forgotten it.